Proper Bacon Sandwich
Look, there are times, many, well occasional, where breakfast ought to be taken late, in the sunshine, with something exceptionally cold and dry, a dozen glisteningly plump oysters on ice, and the boss in one of your shirts and her new Jacquemus’ pumps.
There are other times, more frequent, where breakfast ought to be porridge, at home. Water and salt, oats from Leila’s, a splash of cold milk around the edge and a teaspoon of extra sharp raspberry jam.
Sometimes working breakfasts, or even better, not working breakfasts, at one of our finer establishments, St John, The Wolseley, McDonald’s – double sausage and egg McMuffin, and soon Bruton Place and Mayfair’s best pub, The Guinea Grill.
All of this fits in with a carefully something or other’d image. Crafted, I believe the expensive strategists call it, an insight into my life, and all the “hey, don’t you wish you were me” posed photos, staring into the mid distance, contemplating beans on toast for tea, and whether any of this is worth it.
When those moments strike, I shake it off, and take a trip down the A36. Parking outside my local retailer and servicer of fine automobiles and saunter on up to see Lyn at the field kitchen for a proper breakfast.
Bacon on white for me. Bacon, egg and mushroom on crusty brown for this bloke who keeps following me round.
Bacon from our local butcher and cooked to order, crisp in all the right places.
Bread not quite related to sourdough and better for it, slathered with butter, bacon and ketchup, then halved, wrapped in tin foil and eaten with coffee, contemplating new Land Rover, with Labrador staring.
It’s not artful, nor is it dressed up. It is real life.
And I know that sometimes the fantasy is the medicine we need, just sometimes it isn’t.